


Long Live The King. A Love Story.

by millari, Trovia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Book/Movie 2: Catching Fire, Crack, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 15:05:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1270912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/millari/pseuds/millari, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trovia/pseuds/Trovia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A thousand years after the battle of New York, Loki returns to finally take Earth. This time around, the Midgardians are a little more open to the idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Quarter Quell

Peeta stared at the enormous purple rift that had suddenly appeared above the Cornucopia out of thin air. 

At first, he thought the Gamesmakers had started early. He was still standing rooted to his platform, waiting for Kat to come fetch him, but she was still in the process of getting supplies alongside what looked like Finnick Odair, who hadn’t tried to kill her yet for some reason. Right underneath the giant blob in the air. _Poisoned rain,_ he listed the options in his head. _A freak vacuum sucking them away. Some sort of purple force field falling down on them._

What he didn’t expect was a man, with a very strange horned helmet, dropping out of the vortex and landing on top of the Cornucopia with an elegant flourish. He was dressed in greens and gold, exactly the same gold as the Cornucopia, looking like he belonged there. _Cornucopia figurehead,_ Peeta thought in a daze. 

“I am Loki, the conqueror,” he announced, his preternatural voice booming across all of the lake. Enobaria and Gloss had reached the Cornucopia, but everybody had just turned to stare at him. “But you may call me king.

“Cease your lowly mortal squabbles,” he continued, when nobody had anything to say to _that._ Peeta certainly didn’t. “You beings have learned nothing in the thousand years since I last visited your world, have you?” With a tall spear that looked like it would have cost a small fortune for a sponsor to buy, he made a sweeping gesture around him to include all of the arena. “Look at you all, scrambling for petty dominance over this most paltry wasteland of a fiefdom.” Peeta watched as he paused to consider the pile of weapons at the mouth of the horn. His eyes grew wide as a golden bow from the top floated twenty feet up in the air and gently placed itself in the man’s free hand. He turned it casually back and forth. “Although I see you have at least still remembered how to fight with style,” he added with a chuckle. The bow then fell from his hand, as if he had suddenly lost interest. Peeta suppressed a sound of mourning when the weapon, practically meant for Kat, was swallowed by the water. “Which of you meager warriors are the leaders in this confrontation? Show yourselves!”

Leaders? Who _was_ this guy? Peeta looked around as twenty-three victors, all with hard-won experience in why volunteering for anything was a terrible idea, stayed very firmly still and said nothing. 

“Nobody?” The man who called himself Loki mocked them, with a psychopathic leer that suggested part of him was enjoying every minute of this. “Cowards, all of you…”

Peeta never saw the spear flying through the air at their antagonist, only the sight of it effortlessly deflected by a blue beam of light that for the life of him, Peeta swore had come from the man’s hand. The wrenching scream to his left caught his attention next, and it was only when he saw Brutus dead on the ground, a knife sticking out of his chest, that Peeta realized where the spear had even come from.

That was at least familiar. Was this guy a mutt sent in by the Gamesmakers to liven up the bloodbath, he wondered? But to what end? Since when had tributes slaughtering each other in a frenzy not been enough to satisfy the Capitol viewing audience? 

“Okay, what was the point of that?” he heard an exasperated female voice coming from behind the other side of the Cornucopia where he couldn’t see. Johanna Mason, he realized after a moment of surprise as he saw Loki blinking in what seemed like honest bewilderment. 

“I have bested your leader, have I not?” 

“Leader?” Peeta heard her snort. “Yeah, as much as Brutus would have liked that, no.”

His expression turned strangely calm and logical. “Well then, I shall simply kill all of you one by one until your true leaders step forward.”

They all went silent again, some of them giving each other wary looks. Peeta saw Enobaria’s grip on her sword tighten, but she apparently wasn’t stupid enough to repeat Brutus’ mistake.  
He snuck a glance over at Kat, looking for a cue that wasn’t there. She was too busy keeping one eye on crazy king Loki and another on Finnick, the tribute closest to her. As usual, her face revealed nothing of what she was thinking, and he was suddenly reminded that all of this was of course airing live all across Panem. This had to be ultimately Snow’s idea. It had to be. So what outcome did he want from this spectacle? What was the right way for them to respond?

It didn’t make any sense. Ultimately, their leader was _Snow._ If all this was an elaborate plan to make the victors denounce the rebellious uprisings in the districts by declaring him their leader publically, that still meant they would point out Snow to the crazy man as a target… 

A tickle ran down Peeta’s spine when he realized that they couldn’t do anything _wrong_ if they sent the man to Snow. And if it all turned out to be something else, nothing to do with Snow and the Games – well… 

Clearing his voice, he straightened himself up. _You’ve lost your mind,_ he told himself. 

His voice rang clearly through the arena, easy for all the cameras to pick up. 

“Our leader is President Snow.”

Loki turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow in interest. 

“Excellent,” he said. “Bring me to him.”

“Yeah, we would love to do that,” Johanna’s sarcastic voice rang out again. “You might not have noticed the giant force field locking us in here while we’re supposed to fight to the death, dickhead.”

“Force field?” Loki’s eyes wandered upwards. “That lowly piece of magic? It shall be gone.”

And to Peeta’s complete and utter shock, he moved his spear in a swiping gesture, and with a crackle of blue energy, the invisible dome above the arena was illuminated before it fizzled out of existence. 

“Those who wish to live a prosperous life under the beneficent rule of a true king and god, follow me off this isle.”

Peeta’s eyes fell on Kat, who was looking as if she was weighing the pros and cons and coming up with a not altogether unpleasant result. 

_Well then,_ he thought, waiting for somebody to come fetch him off the platform. _Let’s see where this goes._

* * *

Magnus Publio swallowed hard. 

Bent at an unnatural angle, the corpse of President Snow was spread out at the feet of the lunatic with the spear, at the lower edge of the camera frame. Blood had splattered everywhere, seeping through the luxurious Presidential carpet – though that, at least, was happening outside of the frame and therefore none of Magnus’ concern. He wasn’t sure whether to display the quick work the man had made of the former President on camera or not; Mr. Loki hadn’t said. 

Magnus usually just filmed the fluff pieces on Presidential fashion. He didn’t know how to handle this… this Games cinematography stuff. 

Or, for that matter, his President’s death. 

He breathed a sigh of relief when Mr. Loki raised his head to look at the camera with a shark-like grin and turned out to be utterly photogenic. 

“People of Midgard,” he said. “I have come to free you from the lesser rule of those who claim to have your best in mind.” Peering down, he poked his boot against the dead body in front of his chair. _Definitely keep in frame,_ Magnus thought. “Those days are past. Your fragile mortal lives are too fleeting to recall that my claim to your world reaches back a thousand years. This ‘President’ was but a usurper and a fool. 

“I am Loki, the conqueror, of many realms. My kingship will be kind and just to those who are deserving. Together we will bring the long-slighted Midgard to greater glory than any of the Nine Realms has seen. And all you need to do is love and obey me, your king.”

His piercing gaze fell upon Magnus, who suppressed an urge to hide behind his camera, biting his lip until he remembered his line.

He cleared his voice. “Long live the king!” he shouted, animating his camera team to join him with frantic gestures. “Long live the king!”

_I can cover all of Evening Gown Week with a team of four,_ he told himself. _I can do this._

* * *

Ethel the Avox kept her head down while she poured tea for her new boss and her boss’ new advisors, who all were fidgeting in front of the massive chair of President Snow’s that Loki the Conqueror of Many Realms had claimed as a temporary throne until something more magnificent could be built. Ethel couldn’t say she cared about this man, president, king, whatever. He’d gotten rid of Coriolanus Snow, which was a plus in her book. But on the other hand, she was still here, sans tongue, still serving a pompous man in a fancy chair tea.

President Snow’s advisors, on the other hand, seemed very eager to please their new master. 

“Is this not better?” Loki began to pontificate. It was momentarily unclear whether he meant his ascension to the leadership of Panem or the cup of tea he blew on in his hands. “I think so.” He stared down the sextet of trembling men and women standing before him. “Look at you all, quivering like a flock of virgin geese. But what you do not yet understand is that I have come to liberate you all from the trials of independence, of having to make so many decisions for yourselves. Surely you must be relieved to hand over such burdens to a greater being as myself.”

_Virgin geese?_ Ethel couldn’t help breaking her own rule: she stared at the man, mystified. Then she caught up to the rest of his words. If she still had a tongue, she would have blurted out, “Independent thought? And where exactly in Panem did _you_ grow up?”

Of course, that was pretty much how Ethel had become an Avox. And truth be told, she was still stuck on the geese.

Looking over a diverse palette of fearful faces, Loki waved his hand with an imperious flourish, as he was wont to do, Ethel was noticing. “Never mind. I summoned you people here for information. How is my arrival here being received by my new subjects?”

After a very long pause involving many of them looking at one another, a tiny bald man with a tattooed forehead timidly stepped forward. “Well,” he said, with a nervous giggle that Ethel knew well. “We have begun to conduct some preliminary reaction polls, of course, but I’m afraid that it’s a bit too early for those results, Mr. President, er … Mr. _King_ Loki,” he corrected rapidly. “However, what we don’t need any poll to tell us is that the unexpected interruption of the 75th Hunger Games has turned the populace confused and dismayed. It goes without saying that they are anxious for the resolution of such a momentous competition …”

“Although on the other hand, it is true that the people are glad Finnick Odair and some of the other victors are still alive,” piped up a woman at the far end of the group who wore a mauve wig that reached all the way to the ground and threatened to disappear into the similarly-colored carpet. That would be Anatolia Butterflower, Snow’s gossip analytics specialist.

“And of course Katniss Everdeen and her unborn baby,” added the man next to her with a nod. None of them except Ethel had seemed to notice how Loki’s right eyebrow had been slowly travelling upwards with each additional bit of information. 

“And these Hunger Games would be …” he finally asked, in a tone that suggested he was speaking to particularly slow four-year-old children. 

There was a moment of shocked pause, when there was no reaction whatsoever. _Here it comes_ , thought Ethel, who wasn’t nearly as surprised as the rest of them that the crazy madman who had jumped out of the purple hole in the sky wasn’t quite up-to-date with Panem’s history. 

Once they got over their shock, all of them at once launched into excited babbling over one another about how the Hunger Games were the glue that unites Panem, how this year’s Quarter Quell was the event of a generation, the jewel in the crown of the Capitol, how the Capitol’s mercy towards each Games’ victorious child displayed the Capitol’s astonishing compassion and willingness to forgive past transgressions.

“Silence!” he thundered, then after giving them all the evil eye, placed his chin in his hand in regal thought.

“Are you telling me,” he eventually continued in a deceptively quiet tone of voice, “that each year you send twenty-four children to fight to the death with axes and swords?” He paused to consider it with a terrible glower. “Is there at least any magic involved in this spectacle?”

“M-magic?” Anatolia Butterflower stammered.

“Well, there was that one year that Beetee Latiere won with that coil of electrical wire,” offered Marcus Pompadour thoughtfully. “That might as well have been magic for all we understood how he did it.”

The others nodded immediately in agreement, but Loki wasn’t fooled. “No, no, this will not do,” he declared. “I should not be in favor of such brainless displays of brawn. In my kingdom, those with cunning and a love of the gentler arts shall be the ones to thrive.” 

He spread his arms in an expansive gesture towards them, and Ethel could see his decision was made. “Cancel those games,” he ordered. 

_Huh_ , Ethel thought. _Did not see that one coming._

Shocked silence fell upon the room. 

Marcus Pompadour had blanched. 

“Surely you cannot mean…” he sputtered, and Loki’s face hardened. 

“Do you presume to tell me, your king and rightful conqueror, what I can and cannot do?”

“Well,” Cominius Greenwing chose to speak up for the first time in a placating voice. “It’s not so much what you can do and more of a matter of what the people of Panem want…”

“I have not come here to please the crowds with circus acts!” Loki snapped. “I am to be your king, not your troubadour! This is leading nowhere,” he muttered to himself. “I shall have you all executed and replaced. There has to be somebody on this meager planet capable of understanding the simplest concepts of a monarchy. Be gone! Not you,” he added, snapping a finger at Ethel without looking at her when she tried to make use of this excellent opportunity to escape the crazy madman’s sight. 

“My entourage of warriors I brought from the place with the golden horn,” he announced to the room at large. “They are waiting in the hall. Somebody bring them to me, if you value your insignificant Midgardian lives. I am in need of new advisors. And find me this Finnick Odair that my subjects are so pleased remains alive. 

“You shall bring me more tea.” He didn’t bother to look at Ethel, but it was still pretty clear that she had been addressed. 

So Ethel attempted a little bow, turning on her heel to walk out. 

Loki’s icy voice brought her to a halt again. 

“Your previous leader might have been lax in enforcing discipline, but those days are past down to the servants’ ranks. You shall acknowledge me as ‘Your Majesty’ at all times when I address you.”

Ethel froze. 

_Well fuck,_ she thought.

* * *

Finnick very quietly closed the door to the President’s office behind himself, finding himself alone in the hallway. 

_That was weird,_ he thought, replaying the conversation in his mind. 

He wasn’t exactly sure what had happened in there, and the day had been so full of surprising events that he was struggling to keep up and process them all. He was _pretty_ sure that the man who had interrupted the Quarter Quell and so conveniently disposed of Snow for them had just called him into his office to size him up, hinting around about the love of the people of Panem for Finnick versus their love for their new ruler. At first, Finnick had thought that Loki was about to introduce Finnick to his new pricing system for selling Finnick, but now, he wasn’t sure any more if Loki had even heard of Snow’s little government funding enterprise. Finnick certainly wouldn’t be the one to explain it to him.

“What happened? How did it go?” a voice said. When he turned around, he saw that Johanna had been waiting for him in the shadows, a suspicious scowl etched on her forehead. 

“I’m… I’m not sure,” Finnick very carefully replied. 

What his plans were, now that he had been liberated from the burden of mass entertainment, Loki had asked him with an edge in his voice. 

“I’d actually been hoping to go home to Four and marry my fiancée at last. This politics business, it isn’t really for me.” Why not go for broke, Finnick had figured, producing his most harmless smile and a shrug. “I don’t see a reason to return ever again.”

Inexplicably, it seemed to have been exactly what Loki had been hoping to hear. 

“May the fates bestow upon you and your wife many years of wedded bliss and a fertile marriage bed, _far_ away from the harsh lights of this city,” Loki had said with a grand flourish. 

Finnick reluctantly decided that he liked that guy. 

A smile slowly appeared on his face as he looked at Johanna. 

“Annie and I are going home,” he said.


	2. The New Panem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Next question,” Flickerman said unceremoniously. “What of our body posture? Must we prostrate ourselves?”_

There was no two ways about it: Caesar Flickerman was _drunk_. Morosely drunk. It could not be unseen. But if there was one thing Effie Trinket knew from experience, thanks to Haymitch, it was how to talk her way through conversations with someone who’d had more than his fair share of Pink Sunrises in one sitting.

This wasn’t exactly how Effie had imagined appearing on national television, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, her mother always said, and Effie was determined to look on the bright side of the execution of President Snow. After all, she still had a job, unlike everyone else in the Games industry ever since His Majesty King Loki’s ascension.

Like, for instance, Caesar Flickerman, who sat slumped back in his brightly-colored swivel chair, still painted to match his purple Quarter Quell wig. His shiny suit was surprisingly rumpled, as if he’d slept in it backstage.

“So you’re here tonight to …” he began in a slurred voice, very obviously looking at his index card for the first time this evening, “… _explain to us how to address our new ruler?_ ” He paused, as if to read it again. His face practically screamed, _seriously?_

Effie’s lips pursed on instinct, but she just barely managed to prevent a scowl. Expressions of disapproval always look atrocious next to gold, she thought, and probably with forest green as well. Effie was resplendent in these colors, in honor of Panem’s new leader, who her sharp mind had noticed, favored that combination in his fashion choices. Effie imagined His Majesty’s smile of pleased surprise right about now, as he tuned in and saw how sensitive his new Etiquette Ambassador was to these little details. She had even come up with her title herself, sensing that His Majesty did not wish to be bothered with this task.

“Yes, Caesar,” she chirped, eyes forward, smile on. “Panem is so blessed to be graced with a monarchy, for the first time, as far as our historians can make out. However, it _is_ a new experience for the nation, and there is a bit of a learning curve. His Majesty, Loki, King of Panem, had to instruct us at first, just how he should be addressed. But I dare say that we are all adapting quickly to the new etiquette. A few linguistic changes are a small price to pay for basking in the radiance of the rightful King of Panem.” (Effie ticked this phrase, which King Loki had used liberally during their brief meeting, off her mental to-do list for dropping into this evening’s appearance. She was doing so well already. She couldn’t wait to call her mother afterwards and debrief.)

Excessive drinking backstage seemed to have hampered Caesar from bringing his best game to this evening’s appearance, unfortunately. In fact, as he looked down again at his index cards, he seemed on the verge of tears.

“Indeed they are, Ms. Trinket,” he said woodenly. “So, how would I, as a mere peasant …” he said this last word with a stiff air of unfamiliarity, “ … be required to refer to King Loki should I wish to discuss his magnificence?”

Poor Caesar, Effie thought. Once king of the Games himself, now brought down so low. But of course, kingdoms required peasants, or so Effie was coming to understand, yet there could only be one Etiquette Ambassador.

And Effie had thought of the job _first_. It wasn’t her fault that Caesar had been resting on his laurels, waiting for His Majesty to come to _him_ with a new function, now was it?

“‘His Majesty’ will suffice in mixed company, Caesar,” she said kindly. “Of course, if, for some reason, you were in attendance at court, you would need to use the full title, ‘His Majesty King Loki, Rightful Conqueror of Panem.’” (She graciously left all doubt out of her voice at this prospect.) “And finally, if you were so fortunate as to address His Majesty in person, you would use simply, ‘Sire’ from the second address on to avoid repetition. But ‘Your Majesty’ would also remain perfectly acceptable.”

Caesar took a sip from the glass of water at the table in front of him. Effie strongly suspected that it was spiked with alcohol. Haymitch had pulled that trick on camera enough times. “Next question,” he said unceremoniously. “What of our body posture? Must we prostrate ourselves?” His eyebrows rose at that. “Is a bow sufficient? Must it be a full body bow or will a nod of the head be enough?” His expression seemed to add, _to not get us killed_.

Pshaw, Effie thought. It’s not like Loki was vindictive. Like President Snow had been, what with that terrible Quarter Quell business.

But then that was what Effie had found to love already in this new kingdom and about its new ruler. It was the same lack of autonomy and decision-making, but with a distinct lack of _pettiness_.

* * *

“What do you think?” Thom lowly muttered in Gale’s ear.

It was in the mines’ stockyard after the end of yet another long shift. Crowds of tired miners were waiting in line to clock out, while the Hunger Games screens in the corners showed yet another replay of the new government’s announcement of the end of the Hunger Games.

“I think we’re working longer hours than before,” Gale sarcastically muttered back.

All the Peacekeepers guarding the gates seemed to be very busy looking anywhere but at the still of their new ruler on the television, standing on the Cornucopia with his spear raised in the air, a crazy gleam in his eyes. As far as Gale could tell, none of their Capitol overseers seemed to quite know what to do with this development. But everybody had been on their best behavior ever since Loki showed up, just to be on the safe side.

Which meant, no Hunger Games anymore, yes. But also, longer hours in the mines.

Gale wasn’t so sure about this. Life in the Seam had taught him that nothing ever got better.

It only ever got worse.

* * *

Loki looked out of the expansive window behind his royal desk onto the Capitol horizon. If there was one thing to be said for the imposter who had occupied his throne before him, he had understood the power of symbols: None of the tall buildings surrounding the Presidential Mansion could obstruct his view of the city, bowing before him in acknowledgement of his splendor.

_It is done,_ he thought. It was just a matter of time until Thor would barge in like a baby bilgesnipe, bouncing about in search for the ripest fruit. But at that point, Loki would already have secured this landmass as a staging ground for his conquest of the rest of Midgard, and there would be nothing his foolish brother could do to take it away from him again. Already, the people of Panem were scurrying to fulfill his every desire. It was almost too easy. He hadn’t once missed the Chitauri spear’s power of mind control that had been so instrumental in his first attempt at taking this realm, a thousand years ago.

The presidential, now-royal mansion certainly made for a more dignified palace than the long-deceased Tony Stark’s gleaming metal phallus towering over New York City. The Capitol would suit his needs just fine. And the rest of Panem would be brought up to measure with him in the lead in no time, as well.

The magics he had brought would crush Thor and the Warriors Three into the ground, burying them under the ruins of the very city they had come to claim, if need be.

“Go ahead and tell the Allfather all the crimes you are watching me commit, Heimdall,” Loki whispered, leaning forward, his breath fogging the glass. “There will be nothing you can do to stop me from taking what is rightfully mine – not this time.”

A monster, they called him. A Jotün. Not a true prince, not meant to rule. It was shocking how after a thousand years, that one injustice could still grate so much. Although that wasn’t quite true, now was it – it had been a lifetime of injustices, starting in the cradle, the cradle Odin had robbed him from as a relic of war.

Once he subjugated Panem and Midgard, maybe he could finally put that painful, shameful part of his past behind him.

But first, he had a logistics problem to fix.

_Thor would never bother with such details,_ he couldn’t help but think with no small amount of grim satisfaction. _Thor thinks you can run a kingdom by raising your hammer in the air and demanding more mead while the masses applaud._

Loki had never relied on any applause. If he had, he would have been a bigger fool than his brother, waiting an eternity for the accolades he was rightfully due. 

Turning around, he faced his two latest additions to his coterie of advisors, all ten of them still waiting at the meeting table, wisely keeping to themselves their opinions on their king watching the sky and seemingly conversing with air. After his arrival in Panem, Loki had quickly ascertained the importance this culture placed on popular figures, and the group that was held in highest regard in that way by his subjects – the victors. While he had thought it wise to send the most prominent of them – most notably one Katniss Everdeen and one Finnick Odair – home and thus, as far away from the Capitol as possible, the most cunning and influential amongst them needed to be kept close. Careful interrogations of various members of his court – particularly his Etiquette Ambassador – had singled out the two of them especially. It helped that they seemed to have tight connections to said Everdeen, Mellark and Odair as well, if pressure should ever need to be applied to those.

Again, Thor would probably have been fooled into believing that a charming old lady couldn’t pose a threat to anybody anymore. Loki certainly wouldn’t be making _that_ mistake.

A wave of alcohol breath hit him from Haymitch Abernathy’s direction when he sat down at his tall chair at the head of the table.

That man’s capacity for feasting would have even made Volstagg weep. A part of Loki almost wanted to like him for the pang of familiarity he gave him.

“Very well,” the king announced. “I have been looking at our transportation numbers, and I must say, our economy is a shambles. I have rarely seen such a striking display of inefficiency in any realm that I have travelled.” 

“Efficiency’s never really been a priority around here,” Abernathy muttered, taking another healthy sip of his drink. “Except when it came to ruining lives. Snow was a real pro at that.”

The advisor next to Abernathy, a tiny, grandmotherly woman, reached out and patted the man’s wrist in a comforting way that for a flicker of a moment, made Loki think of the woman he had called Mother for the first millennia of his life, before he had found out the truth. He focused on the octogenarian, Mags Cohen, Panem’s oldest living victor, he was told, and he was beginning to suspect, the de facto leader of the victors, never mind her demure old lady act. Loki had noticed right away how Panem’s most popular victor, the ubiquitous Finnick Odair, seemed to defer to her in all regards. 

“Please continue, Your Majesty,” she enunciated carefully, giving Loki a composed nod.

Loki eyed her warily, but she didn’t move to pat him as well. 

“Speak your mind, good woman,” he said with an calculatedly impatient gesture. “What do you suppose are the reasons for this economic catastrophe?”

To any other observer, her face would have just looked like that of a kind elderly woman owlishly blinking at him, but Loki noticed the blank mask she put on immediately. 

“It’s really not my place to say, your Majesty. I’ve never known much about these things.”

_Yes, and you want to be sent home for lack of usefulness,_ Loki knew to translate. Her demeanor was even, careful not to antagonize, yet all the while, he could see her mind quietly conducting research. She was biding her time and learning, this one, learning the new rules under which she would be required to exist. Loki recognized the strategy well from his own first days under the thumb of Thanos. Although in his case, he had been frantically seeking the opposite - a way to be useful to his intergalactic overlord, so that Thanos would allow him to live. That this woman was not doing the same as he had done suggested to him that she did not fear him quite enough. 

He frowned slightly, his voice taking a slightly sharper edge. “Surely, Advisor Cohen, we can all profit from your many years of experience in this realm. Have you not outlived various pretenders to my throne?” 

“Oh.” Mags gave him what was obviously her best harmless smile. “I’m just an old fisherwoman. How would I know anything? I barely went to school.” 

“And education definitely is the first thing we will change,” Loki muttered to himself, not even wanting to know how terrifying this woman would have become with access to ancient tomes of Asgardian knowledge and magic. Clearing his voice, he gave her an imperious look. “I did not ask about your education,” he declared. “Your usefulness to me is _not_ yours to determine. Your king asked you a question. I’d _advise_ ,” he added with sarcasm, “that you answer it.”

Haymitch snorted. 

“Something to contribute, Advisor Abernathy?” Loki sharply said, eyeing the younger victor as he leaned forward over the table, flask still dangling between his fingers. 

“Alright, all the reasons why Panem is fucked, listen here,” Haymitch said with the fatalism of a man who had realized that he was probably dead, and had decided to not care. “Where to start? How about the one where everybody everywhere is starved, leaving aside the Capitol, where they sit on their fashionably skinny asses cheering on and placing bets on how the district kids are gonna go down.” His voice was becoming slightly slurred. “Or wait, there’s also the little pressing issues of no hospitals. No traveling allowed either. No right to leave the district, to open your own damn business, or even just take a walk in the forest outside town when you want. And there’s the families to support because no, not everybody is fit to work in the industry of the district they happen to be born in. That enough reasons for you, or should I go on?”

They were both altogether too impudent, these two, although each in their own way. Still deciding how to react to this alcohol-fueled outburst, Loki quirked an eyebrow towards Cohen, whom he caught carefully studying his reactions to Abernathy’s rant before her expression retreated back into the defensive mask with yet another owlish blink. “Well?” he demanded, staring her down.. “Would you agree with Advisor Abernathy’s list?”

He took satisfaction in the nervous way her eyes darted back and forth, her mind clearly calculating the risks of answering with yet another bland rejoinder versus stark honesty. 

“Many of the districts are half-starved,” she acknowledged after a long, silent moment of indecision. “President Snow’s biggest priority was the pacification of his citizens here in the Capitol, not the efficient movement of an economy throughout Panem..That pacification was bought with luxuries he forced the districts to produce and with oppressive rules meant to subdue those not fortunate enough to be born here in this city.”

Loki almost clucked with approval, impressed at how quickly and artfully she had calibrated her answers already to parrot his own key words back at him, while still managing to advocate for her people. Her answer was partly her now healthy respect for his power over her life and death talking, which was not a bad thing at all, he decided. But her calculations on her new leader also were clearly finished, and she was adjusting her approach accordingly, while still managing to tell him the unspoken truths he needed to know about his new kingdom. She was a much more subtle creature than Abernathy, although who knew what he was capable of when not addled with drink? 

He took note of how the other advisors around this table were merely staring at each other in shock at the two victors’ frank words.They had certainly all been benefitting from his predecessor’s illogical economic system. _Keep an eye on these two_ , he reminded himself.

“It is apparent that this nation suffers from a distinct over-centralization problem,” he announced to the room at large. “Yes, it appears that only the place you call District Ten has cows, and thus cows can only be butchered in District Ten, but it is indeed possible to populate other areas of Panem with cows as well – different breeds of cows even – enabling the butchering trade to spread out and offer their services all across the kingdom. This way, the starvation rate would go down, resulting in a stronger workforce and higher productivity…”

“But if you change each district’s function,” protested Advisor Butterflower in chagrin, “wouldn’t you be taking away their cultural identity? For example, in the Hunger Games chariot parade every year, those roles were reflected in each tribute’s clothing designs. It’s how we identified in such a large stadium which chariot was which. It’s an immediately recognizable part of district cultures. It would be such a disservice to those people to strip them of what makes them them ...” 

One look at Abernathy’s nearly bug-eyed stare of amazement at the woman told Loki everything he needed to know about the validity of Advisor Butterflower’s objection, and to make his decision. Abernathy and Cohen were by far the two biggest threats in this room, it was true, but they were also his most valuable assets for fashioning out of this broken kingdom a properly-functioning base of operation. 

“Enough!” he shouted at Butterflower, already tired of her, but pleased at the way she went obediently silent and shrank back in her seat. “Have I not made it abundantly clear that I do not wish to hear about that offensive circus?” he elaborated for full effect on the rest of them.While everyone stayed silent, waiting for him to give them cues, his searching eyes cast about the room, eventually landing upon a servant girl with flaming red hair, one of those voiceless Capitol servants Loki had generously provided with magical restoration of their tongues. Servants ought to be able to utter the proper terms of respect toward their king. 

“Tea!” he snapped at the girl, pointing at Cohen’s empty cup. Watching the girl rush over and pour, he thought, _Keep your friends close, yes, but keep your enemies closer. And control their food supply._. “There is much work to do.”


End file.
